Baby Mama

A bit of satire while it's still legal in America

His assistant said it would be easy. Open the vacuum pack, stick it in, press the plunger, and she’d be on the way to knocked-up city. None of the others had a problem with it. But Jess, knees splayed on the pink toilet seat of her Barbie-inspired bathroom, froze. She’d never been scared. Not like this. She ran marathons, she’d jumped out of planes, she’d always been up for a new challenge.

But she was starting to have second thoughts. And thirds. And fourths.

Her hand shook, beads of sweat dampened her forehead and the back of her neck, and she almost dropped the damned thing in the toilet. The instructions said for optimal viability, she’d have fifteen minutes after opening the package. She rested the plunger on her bare thigh, took a deep breath, reminded herself why she’d decided to go through with this.

At first she thought it was a joke. That he was trolling her, or someone was, because she’d made some stupid comment on social media about why all these jerky incel guys online said she should be barefoot and pregnant.

The first message she received was “If you have my baby I’ll buy you a lot of totally sick shoes.”

It made her laugh. Every other account, it seemed, was some kind of parody of the World’s Richest Man, but this one was cleverer than most.

But when a black-clad flunky came to her door with an NDA and a dozen pink roses, she realized this was no parody. She’d dropped to a chair after he left, blinking herself back to reality, then read the letter that had come with the document, a selection of words jumping out at her. Your decision. No obligation. Adoptive families available. A great thing for humanity. No physical contact required.

No physical contact…what in the name of Brave New World was this? But as pictures of him from the news and the web came into her mind, that, at least, was a relief. He didn’t do anything for her.

But then she saw the number of zeros in the contract. Did the calculation in her head. Nine months of incubation, with free medical care, would net her enough to pay off her student loan with enough left over for graduate school.

Then she could be on her merry way to the life she’d always dreamed of—getting a master’s in oceanography, studying the delicate barrier between the sea and the land. So she’d signed the paperwork, submitted to the health screening, and the package had arrived at her front door.

But now…

She checked her watch. She had five minutes left until the world’s most expensive sperm expired. Heat flushed her face; her heartbeat pounded into her ears. The plastic syringe had made an imprint into her thigh.

“No harm no foul if you fail to conceive. But you must return proof of application, in the form of the empty syringe that includes your DNA, as well as a signed copy of the enclosed affidavit that you injected the specimen…”

The words from the contract had amused her when she first saw them. Now they had a savage twist, and she felt like a brood mare on a farm. She pictured herself huge and achy and tired, cursing the day she’d decided to do this.

But the money…and it was only nine months…

She brought the syringe between her legs again. Hesitated a moment, the tip of her index finger on the plunger. But she couldn’t move it closer. Her body had decided for her. With the fingers of her other hand, she collected some of her own fluid, distributed it evenly over the plastic, and shot his South African wad into the john.